Richard at Seventy Three

Today is my husband's birthday.  We went yesterday evening for a steak dinner, and this morning I invented a birthday card to set by his plate at the breakfast table, something "cute" from my computer since as usual I had failed to buy a card at the store.  Richard and I have been together for more than twenty five years and he has never failed to set a card out at my place on my birthday.  Says a lot, but I shall not hazard the guess what that is.  When we met Richard was 46 and I was 59; he was so handsome, with an eyebrow that could bend up in such a sexy quizzical fashion, made to match his wit.  A friend of mine observing the two of us after a year into our relationship said "oh, my god, you two laugh so much," and yes, we are both funny and use language for wit as well as communication.  The only down side are his terrible puns from time to time.  We are truly different types. He was a high school teacher, I was a college professor (he would say that thus he cared about the growth and development of the youngsters before him, whereas I was more concerned with how my performance was coming across). He is, as I am forever saying to friends, the high school hall monitor demanding to see that you have your bathroom pass when he meets you coming along.  I am the kid in the back row throwing spit balls or sneaking out at recess to go home.  He is very patient when it comes to re-arranging the house, which we have done on many occasions.  And of course there is the incredible fact that he is a handyman who knows how to repair most everything, not to mention build from scratch a deck on the side of the house in Cambridge, the exquisite brick terrazzo and pergola in Hull, and all the repairs that all our dwellings cry out for over the years.  Add to this, his annoying propensity for correcting all my grammatical errors in Latin, Greek, French, German, Italian, and Spanish.  Fundamentally, I don't care, I am sloppy and a lazy learner, born into old money, and indifferent to precision--and as I often remind him, I am the one who has the Harvard PhD.  Richard grew up in poverty on Staten Island and went on to college degrees and graduate degrees and a superb teaching career.  That's quite a difference.  It manifests itself as well in his obsessive precision with money.  Nothing annoys him more than when asked by him after some purchase of mine "What did you pay for that?" I reply "I don't know." Money is a strange thing; my mother in law, my second wife, just like Richard balanced their check books down to the penny.  I  never have, just  like my mother, taking for granted that what the bank tells me is okay.  He shudders when I say that.  When first we met I innocently asked "Where did you spend your summers when you were a kid?"  He was polite and didn't get angry, and answered: 'in our four room house on Staten Island," but he never lets me forget my naiveté.  Recently I had open heart surgery, and for three weeks Richard was a constant support, never complaining, never cringing, never wanting out for a break.  "Oh, my god," I said finally, "you are so nice and kind."  "I love you," he replied.